Kirkland's Journal of Merfolk Anatomy and Culture
by gemmawolf
Summary: Cartographer Arthur is the laughing stock of Grimsport after he told his tale of survival from man-eating sirens, but he is determined to prove to them that the legendary beasts do, in fact, exist; even if he has to catch one himself. But when unexpected feelings get in the way of his new research journal, he has to decide if he should reveal his monster or not. Rating may go up.


His vision was suddenly white, searing and hot; his ears rang, but other than that there was a deadly silence. The cannon had exploded without warning, kicking back as it fired. But ammunition hadn't been wasted the seaman. They were in open water with no enemy save for the sneaking rocks in shallow water, and it was quite clear that Captain Beilschmidt was finding the scene hilarious. Arthur watched him doubled over and red in the face with laughter as he wiped at the sides of his head in a vain attempt to restore his hearing.

"How amusing," he drawled, uncertain of how loud he was, and staggered back to his cartographer's office in the depths of The Hourglass. They were a small company sent to retrieve a valuable cargo from a recent wreck; this particular sort of work was dangerous and required a careful study and marking of maps to prevent the recovery ship from running aground itself. That was where Arthur came in.

He made a simple living in the lonely coastal town of Grimsport by copying up maps of the New World and foreign shores for travellers, sailors and soldiers, and was quite content with it; that was until Gilbert burst through the door of his workshop, blabbering something about a voyage and offering a generous sum of gold. Stupidly, the Englishman had accepted, not considering for a moment that the crew might delight in harassing and torturing a stranger when the endless hours at sea left them bored.

As he made his way back to his tiny quarters, there was some sort of commotion between them, several of them jostling and shoving him as they hurried in the opposite direction. Arthur ignored them, holding onto the supports as the ship swayed beneath his feet. Collapsing in a pile on his bed, he tried to steady his churning stomach; the sensation of sea sickness had grown from being dreadful to just plain irritating. He closed his eyes, and tried to relax.

He woke with a start, a grinding vibrating through the skeleton of the ship, shuddering as it dragged itself along the rocks. Cursing, he swung himself off the hard wooden bed and ran up to the deck.

It was strange to see the world spin and swerve without sound. It was even stranger to see the events that unfolded before his hazel-green eyes.

The men were flinging themselves overboard. They appeared to be dragged by some invisible force, their faces slackened in a dreamy expression, until they clambered over the sides of the vessel and disappeared from view. Soon the entire deck was empty, and Arthur was left alone to gape at the sudden ghost ship. After a moment he climbed the last few steps, certain that he was missing something, and warily neared the edge of the wooden structure to look down at the waves below.

The ocean was turning thick with blood and guts.

His urge to vomit was overbearing; while the emptied contents of his stomach mingle with the soup of saltwater and hacked, clawed, _chewed_ flesh, he felt his legs quake and give in as he stared into the jewel-like eyes of the demons tearing apart the sailors' bodies. One by one they finished their meal and began opening their mouths to varying degrees, like fish beached onto the land and gulping helplessly at the air. The Britton looked on, fascinated and disgusted, and realised exactly what they where, which creatures from legend could lure men to their death at sea.

Sirens.

There was no telling how long he would remain deaf, thus immune to their song. He worked quickly, gathering up his belongings and work and anything else he would need on the long journey home; to hell with it, he even plundered the gold and valuables of the Captain, seeing as the man wouldn't be needing them any time soon. The sky grew dark and the evil, twisted creatures continued their fatal melody as he lowered a longboat filled with his supplies.

His heart raced as he rowed away painfully slowly while the creatures circled his boat. They had been almost two days into the trip when they ran aground; without the power and speed of a sailboat it would take at least twice that time to reach the shore, and possibly even longer to make his way north or south back to Grimsport.

Clawed hands shot out of the murky water to grab at him; he cried out and sat as far from the edges as he could, beating at the webbed fingers with an oar until they disappeared back under the surface. A pair of them began rocking the dingy from its hull in an attempt to topple him into the icy foam of the ocean, but he held fast, throwing some oil from a lamp onto the snarling face of a maiden, followed by a lit match. Uncaring of her pitiful silent wailing as her sensitive skin burnt away, he sat back in position, rowing mechanically towards the coast, not even stopping to sleep until the belly of the lifeboat lurched onto the gravel.

Several Weeks Later

The word was out: he was a madman, spinning tales of man-eating merfolk. He couldn't escape it; boys knocked on the door of his workshop to taunt him, women at the market sidled up to him and offered to sell him fish; the pub had also taken action against him, refusing to serve him alcohol lest he began spewing nonsense once more. At least he had his other sources of gin.

Emptying his glass, hissing at the burn, he added the finishing touches to a map using ink. The brush left behind an ebony swirl of waves where a horrid half-man, half-fish monster rose from the water. He'd exaggerated the pointed knives of teeth, the glassy sheen of the eyes. The beasts had plagued his dreams, his everyday thoughts every since that awful encounter, clawing at him as he lay in his bed at night and mouthing curses to him as they tore at his arms and legs and chest. His hearing had recovered before he reached land, however the creatures seemed to have abandoned their hunt by that point, so he had no idea what hellish mewls and hissing they produced. He's prayed repeatedly, thanking the German sailor for his idiotic yet life-saving prank.

Using the images from the shadows of his mind was a method of coping with the nightmares, but it wasn't enough; he wanted sympathy, craved it. He'd watched men – cruel but innocent men – be reeled in by those foul beasts and torn to shreds, and no one believed him, despite the lack of other explanations as to why he was the sole survivor of The Hourglass' crew. In the earlier days of his ramblings to the townsfolk a couple of them had wagged a finger at him and informed him that they would believe him when they saw it, before kicking mud at him or spitting.

_Then that's just what I'll do,_ he decided, hunched over the tabletop, unaware or uncaring that he's smudged ink all over his chin. He could take the longboat – which was still stored near the pier entrance of his workshop – and sail out to open water, haul in one of the creatures and bring it back. Cut it open. Study it.

He shuddered, the drafty room growing cold in the rainy evening. _Yes, that could work._

_But first I'll need bait._

The dingy creaked precariously as he fumbled about in the boat. He had to be quick; they could smell the blood, no doubt. Arthur couldn't help but gag on the stench of the body, covered by a ragged old sail and festering after it had hummed in the midday sun while he rowed out to sea. His shoes were covered in blood, as were his arms right up to the elbows, but there was no turning back now. He had to put the child's flesh to good use, while also destroying the evidence.

No one would miss the little street urchin. The Englishman had found the little thing sniffing about in the barrels outside his workshop; he offered him a hot broth and a warm bed, and the boy accepted without checking for an ulterior motive. While he slept between the woollen blankets he'd smothered him with a heavy jacket, preventing any blood from staining the sheets. The ruby fluid had only begun to spill when he started hacking it into smaller pieces at sea.

That had been hours ago; now had plenty of bloody chunks to skewer onto the meat hook that he was inspecting. He'd come prepared, with a hook large enough to snag a man-sized monster and a makeshift harpoon in case he had to battle it out, as well as plenty of netting to trap it. _I won't return until I've got one._ He'd also blocked up his ears with beeswax after taking note of the tales of Odysseus from his small library of books on mermaids and other mythical creatures. It wouldn't be enough to protect him completely, but it was enough to keep rational thought if he concentrated.

The full moon had risen to the horizon, appearing swollen and bloated on the flat plane of the Atlantic Ocean. It was said that moonlight would bring the creatures to the surface in open water, as they tended to strike at night to call to lone watchmen above the decks, causing them to fling themselves into the spray and drown. The combination of the moon and the meat would hopefully be too tempting an offer for any siren to pass on.

Cringing at the rubbery texture, Arthur forced a hunk of a limb onto the meat hook and tossed it overboard, holding tightly onto the thick rope as it sunk a few feet below the surface. He stood rigid in place, a solid silhouette against the lunar beams that shone on the navy waters. When he thought he saw something moving in the depths he braced himself, but minutes went by without a sign of life. Just as he started to wonder if he was, indeed, mad, the rope was almost pulled from his hands. He cried out at the friction against his palms and fingers, but yanked back on the rope; the catch pulled back, twisting in the water and looping under the boat. He loosened his grip, preventing the creature tipping the boat over, and began reeling it in inch by painful inch.

It was strong, incredibly strong. His shoulders and stooped back ached agonisingly as he battled with it, tugging occasionally to bring it closer to the surface. Every now and then a flash of colour would come close to bursting through, but vanish back into the darkness, afraid to be seen by mortal eyes. When he could spare a hand, he threw in more bait, tempting the beast to give in and receive a free meal.

Eventually it was dragged almost out of the water completely, the turquoise scaled tail thrashing about, sending huge waves of saltwater over him, freezing him to the marrow in the chilly night and stinging his eyes to the point of tears. He cursed mentally, realising that he would somehow have to haul the thing onto the boat. There was no other way but to keep pulling.

With one sharp tug he yanked it free of the ocean. The creature landed across the middle of the boat, the end of its tail still drooping in the water on one side and its fingertips on the other. The Englishman had a few seconds to catch his breath and tighten his hold on the rope before it continued to flop frantically around, scrabbling with its clawed fingertips to dive back to the hell whence it came. He quickly grabbed an oar and knocked it hard on the back of the head, sending its streamline body limp.

He dropped the oar immediately and moved to wrap it up in layers of the netting, weighing it down lengthways on the floor of the longboat and covering its face with a blanket to keep it calm when it eventually woke. Before he laid the material over it though, he took a good look at its face.

It was male, clearly, and a beautiful specimen. The strong jaw and youthful features would have any young woman swooning, if not for the ghastly hole through the base of its mouth and the gory meat hook still protruding through it. He threw the blanket down without another thought, dumped the rest of the boy's remains in the sea, and rowed for home.


End file.
